Heart of Steel
by Sentiment for Lost Creatures
Summary: For three consecutive nights, Tony Stark finds himself at the same club, drinking the same drink, staring at the same girls. What is he really searching for amongst all the strippers and secrets?


**Title:** **Heart of Steel**

Series: Old Habits Die Hard

**Summary:** For three consecutive nights, Tony Stark finds himself at the same club, drinking the same drink, staring at the same girls. What is he really searching for amongst all the strippers and secrets?

**Pairings:** **Loki/Tony Stark** (FrostIron).

**Characters**: Loki, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers.

**Rating:** Explicit

**Warnings:** Sexual content, swearing, strippers & strip clubs, Lady Loki (though not involved in the sexual activity).

**Disclaimer:** I do not own or have any connection to anything related to Marvel or the likeness to any characters, films or comics.

A visual aid for this story (remove spaces and full stops in the normal places) : madetobe-ruled tumblr com/post/66627312313/visualhos

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In the cold light of the blinding streetlamp, Tony Stark trudges along the rain splattered sidewalk, coat collar pulled up around his neck and obscuring his face. He spent the last ten minutes sat in one of his less conspicuous cars — he wouldn't let Happy drive him tonight — waiting for the weather to calm before departing on his short journey. His destination is well disguised, masquerading itself as your average high-end nightclub, but if you're enlightened to the truth, which most are nowadays, the underground floor opens you up to a huge range of new experiences to which Tony is most acquainted. For the last 20 years or so, and more importantly the last three nights, Tony has been a well sought after regular of the club's more notorious proclivities.

He enters the club, like usual. He gets handed a complimentary glass of scotch, like usual. He passes the tight security and makes his way down the stairs, like usual. Like usual, nothing about his routine has changed, but it just feels wrong. All shades of _wrong_. He can't seem to figure out why it all feels so wrong and is so disturbed by just how wrong it feels, he's ventured back every night this week (it's Wednesday) to the same club in hope of finding his answer.

The club itself is in fact a "gentleman's club" — named by the so-called gentleman to make themselves feel less guilty about deserting their wives for the company of much younger women. In all actuality it really is just an overly expensive strip club for the mildly rich and desperately famous. It parades itself in deep red walls, all dark wood and leather, hints of gold weaving through the plush purple carpet, pretending to be all the class and sophistication it would be if it weren't for the women grinding against a pole wearing nothing more than a cheap, pink G-string.

_Three nights_. Three consecutive nights Tony has sat in the same seat, his preferred seat made of black Italian leather; close enough to the stage to see and enjoy its entirety, but is far enough back to avoid getting involved. Iron Man really can't afford a scandal where he gets caught in a spotlight as he pokes a hundred dollar bill down a stranger's cleavage. Every dancer in the joint knows if they want his money, a solo dance in the privacy of the _exclusive boudoirs_ is where they'll get it. The amount of money he's put into the place could probably have put one of the girls through college by now.

But, and he can't stress this enough to himself as new blonde takes the stage, it's still the third night in a row that he's found himself back at the club. Never has Tony Stark ever visited the same venue that many nights in succession, it just doesn't happen. He can even identify each house dancer by the size of her breasts and the proportions of her body, but not by name. _Any_ name, whether it be real or the persona they create to afford themselves normalcy in their everyday lives. It's a fact that once may have amused him, but now he's just disgusted with himself. Nothing about his visits this week have been the same as they have been over the last two decades. No thrills, and certainly no spills. There's a mental block that he can't seem to understand or break down and it's stopping him from enjoying the entertainment in front of him.

He's been sat in his seat, still nursing that first scotch, for the last hour and a half, and it's nearing 1am. His eyes are on the girls though — girl after girl; blonde, brunette, back to blonde; C, DD, _A _— but his mind is somewhere else. Nowhere in particular, just not here in the club. His eyes suddenly refocus when the atmosphere in the club dramatically changes. The lights change, blue taking over red, an ethereal hue mingling with the gentle smoke billowing over the stage. The heavy beat of the music lightens, the pace remains energetic but a delicate dynamic takes a hold. A murmuring rises through the scattered crowd of the other patrons, everyone's attention piqued in interest.

It's out of the corner of his eye he sees her, a stranger to the club and definitely not one of the regular dancers. He's never seen her before but she makes him sit a little straighter in his chair, already intrigued by the way her long legs carry her onto the stage with an inhuman elegance. His eyes focus on her and only her, mesmerised by the way she twists and turns around the pole without mounting it. Her thick, raven black hair, so unlike the stereotypical peroxide blonde, floats through the air, a stark contrast to her alabaster skin.

She is class and sophistication personified, everything from her movement to what she wears. Despite the lingerie she's dressed in, it's still more material than that of the other dancers. Even with less skin showing, she just oozes sex appeal and allure. She teams a simple black bra that has four thin straps criss-crossing over her chest to enhance the natural curve of her cleavage, with a dainty pair of black lace French knickers. Her legs are adorned with a pair of glossy, black lace stockings pulled up to mid-thigh, and a rather expensive looking pair of green shoes. Tony can't decide whether the pointed toe or the stiletto heel could do him more damage. What really catches his eye though, is the glint of four diamond links laying across her stomach, attached to a delicately thin green cincher belt tucking in her slim waist.

After transfixing the men with her presence and appearance, she begins to truly work the pole in her hand. The muscles in her legs twitch as she wraps them around silver, lifting and twisting, dropping and turning. The moves are more of an athletic feat than they are designed to be sexy, but it's the hottest thing Tony's seen all night. She has no need for cheap tricks, thrusting or grinding against the pole, it's all in the execution of her performance. He sits in awe, her beauty more powerful than her legs. But the more he watches, the more she reminds him of someone; pale skin, black hair, distinct penchant for green... All too soon, her music comes to an end, a harder, much faster beat more reminiscent of the club taking over. He's almost disappointed as she disappears off the stage, his eyes unable to follow her behind the theatre-style curtain.

For the rest of the evening he continues to watch the stage, swirling the scotch that eventually needed refilling by a passing waitress with a flick of his wrist, sipping every so often. Disinterested in the women that follow the pale beauty, he realises just why she had caught his eye so intently. How hadn't he realised immediately the moment she appeared on stage? How hadn't he realised the distinct resemblance between the dancer and his _boyfriend_? Other than the obvious gender differences, there isn't much in it. He tries to divert his thoughts, but his mind strays back to Loki; the God who is most likely laid amongst the maroon sheets of their shared bed, the golden comforter pooled around his waist as he sleeps into the late hour.

He has to look twice when a body finally approaches him; his mind thinking of Loki and his eyes seeing him. He blinks to clear his vision, the dancer from earlier appearing in front of him. One slim leg kneels beside his thigh, the other mounting his lap, like the pole she did earlier. Making herself comfortable with a flick of her hair, she places both hands on the back of the chair, blocking Tony's view of the stage. His eyes have to look at her face to avoid staring _directly_ at her ample bosom.

Dipping her head, her voice licks his ear, deep and seductive, "Do I intrigue you, _Sir_?" A shiver runs up Tony's spine, knowing he's heading into dangerous territory hard and fast. His mouth is dry, unable to form any words to politely decline any offer she will inevitably make him. "Whoever you have at home," she purrs, reading his mind, "Will surely not mind you indulging in _one dance_ with a pretty thing like _me_?"

He immediately thinks to Loki — _whoever you have at home_ — realising the God would probably get off watching Tony with his female doppelganger, the kinky fuck. But not like this, not in his absence, only with his explicit permission. Tony learnt early on in the "relationship" that Loki is fiercely protective of what he believes is his, and although Tony isn't an object, a regular conversation (read: argument) they have to have, he wholeheartedly belongs to the God in every way possible, not a woman who just looks like him. But the great Tony Stark is voiceless, he can't speak let alone refuse, numb as she removes the glass from his hand, conveniently placing it on a passing tray. Still unresponsive, he allows her to take a hold his hand and pull him to his feet. She twists under his arm until his wrist is resting on her shoulder, fingers entwined, dragging him forward to one of the private rooms.

Pushing through the heavy curtains in the corner, Tony finds himself in the familiarity of a private boudoir. He's been in this situation far too many times, but never with a woman with such a presence. More forcefully than he could have anticipated for such a lithe body, she pushes him into the chair central in the room so hard it rocks backwards on two legs. A similar music to her stage performance filters through the air, her hips begin to sway in a seamless rhythm. Now that they're alone, she's even more intimidating. With the same swing she rounds the chair, a prowling lion stalking her prey. She disappears behind him, and before Tony can turn his head, her hot breath is in his ear, "How would you like me, Mr Stark?"

"I can't. I can't be in here with you…" He stammers like a hopelessly terrified teenage boy, cowering as she completes the circle around him, her fingers dancing over his strong back and tense shoulders.

"Then why are you here," She says, kicking one leg up to kneel beside his right, her body gently ripples in time to the music against him, "If not to indulge in my body?"

"I don't know why I'm here!" He cries louder than really necessary, the room isn't that big and there is no such thing as personal space as she presses her chest to his. This time he looks to the ceiling, still trying not to look at her breasts.

"This is a strip club, why else would you be here?" Eyeing him closely, she places her hands on either side of his face, tilting him back to her. Tony goes to open his mouth, but it's easy to predict what he'll say, "Please do not say _I don't know _again."

She takes a seat firmly in his lap, and stares intently at him. She's still too close for comfort, but at least she's stopped moving. He throws his hands up in the air, dropping back down like lead, frustrated and strained. "Everything's changed! Everything, even this!" He points to her regarding the brief lap dance that thankfully didn't last all that long. Shifting to make herself a bit more comfortable, ignoring the awkwardness Tony is feeling, she tilts her head, a quizzical look gracing her perfectly symmetrical features. His face drops. _Of course she doesn't understand_. How was she supposed to understand his turmoil, when he barely does? "I come to this club _all_ the time; have a drink, a dance with a few girls and I have a bloody good time. But now, after three nights of this same damn routine, it's just not the same. _Fuck!_ You're the only person who's interested me all week and that's only because…"

"_Because_?" She urges when he falters, words trailing off.

He closes his eyes and drops his head, "Because you remind me of someone."

"Someone special?"

"Very." He nods, ashamed to admit it out loud to a stripper when he doesn't to the person who really matters.

"You love this person?"

"_Shit_," He swears but doesn't stop to hesitate, "Yeah, I love them."

"Then you have found your answer, Mr Stark. You no longer have need for me or this place, when you have him—" His head shoots up at the allegation; it may be true, but outside the Avengers, Fury and Pepper, no one actually knows that particular snippet of information, "— _or her _— waiting at home for you."

She sits for a few silent moment, before shifting off Tony's lap. She turns and starts her prideful saunter to the exit. Their night had ended a long time ago; it never really began, despite her hardest efforts of turning up the mood. Her fingers curl into the curtains at the same time Tony's wrap around her wrist. When she glances over her shoulder, Tony shrugs his shoulders noncommittally attempting to play it cool, "At least let me pay you for this impromptu _counselling session_. I paid my therapist enough before I sacked him."

"Go home, Stark, I have no need for your money." He doesn't take no for an answer and pulls $500 from his wallet, shoving it into her unwilling hand. She tuts and shakes her head; folding the notes with her free hand, she tucks them into her bra. Sometimes it's simply easier to give in than to argue, especially with this stubborn, old fool.

She wriggles her wrist free from Tony's hold and turns on her heel to leave. Knowing nothing more will come from the night — he has no urges for her despite her beauty, and she obviously knows not to try anything — he feels bold enough to satisfy his curiosity, "What's your name?"

Becoming more exasperated she turns back to him, her long hair whipping in front of her face. Flicking it back over her shoulder, she points a vexed finger in his face, "You have no need for my name, Stark. Now leave before I have you escorted from the premises, you have more important places to be. _Go home._"

They stand with a mutual understanding and respect. He nods and she smiles, before turning and strutting from the room with a calm yet purposeful confidence he's only ever seen perfected by Loki. Shaking off the thoughts of comparing the dancer to his lover, he follows her through the curtain on his way to leave. Once back in the main room of the club, he looks around to see if he can see her one last time. He can't. With that curious magical aura, she disappeared into thin air. With one last empty glance, he takes his leave.

Tearing into the tower with a speed that would have caught him some tickets on the journey, Tony slams on the breaks to prevent himself crashing into the oncoming concrete wall. The lights of the underground parking lot blind as Tony steps out of his car. With an excessive force in his haste he slams the door shut, the clanging of metal reverberating through the empty lot. He barely remembers to lock it before making his way to the nearest elevator. Not that anyone would dare steal from this particular building, the security is far too tight for a petty car thief, and there are cameras _everywhere_.

Impatiently, Tony repeatedly jabs the call button of the elevator. He bounces on the balls of his feet, fingers wriggling anxiously, _praying_ it arrives soon. The distinct ding of the bell chimes and the doors slide open; he dives in and jams his index finger into the button that will take him to the top floor where the penthouse is situated. "Jay buddy, lets speed this up, yeah? Places to be, people to see…"

People to see: _Loki_. He has absolutely no clue where he's been, and Tony has no idea if his absence has even been noted or not. But either way, how the _fuck_ is he going to explain this, smelling of booze and strippers, and looking like he's been dragged through the Playboy mansion backwards. He's as transparent as glass to the God, he'll smell the guilt before the perfumes.

"_Of course, Sir_." Jarvis dutifully replies. The door zips shut, and immediately picks up speed. The velocity increases gradually, faster than the standard guideline but within reason, the AI always consciously keeping his master safe.

The elevator comes to an abrupt stop, throwing Tony slightly off balance. Before he can regain his footing fully, the door reopens and he throws himself into action. Tripping into the main living area of the penthouse, he falls straight into the wall of hard muscle that is Captain America.

_If Steve's awake, what time is it… 5am?_ Shit. It must be, he's always up ridiculously early to train. It also means Natasha could be creeping around somewhere — he has to be careful — yet another person who could sniff out Tony's shame. He really has to get out of here.

"Hey Tony," Steve says, standing the genius back on two steady feet, "Are you just getting in?" _God Steve, you're not my mother,_ "It's _really_ late, well early now I suppose." And doesn't he just despise the judgement in his voice, "Does Lo—"

He doesn't let Steve continue. Why should he, he doesn't have to explain himself to Captain Spandex. He's mostly panicking over what he's going to tell his lover. Bigger fish to fry. Much bigger. Fish that'll fry him. "Yeah, uh, hi Cap. Long story. Need to, um, yeah…" Tony pats him on the shoulder absentmindedly as he walk by, his eye trained on his destination. The hallway that leads to his and Loki's bedroom.

Slipping cautiously through the bedroom door, barely making a sound despite his nervous footing and usually squeaky hinges, he breathes a sigh of relief to see Loki exactly where he thought he would. Lying flat on his stomach, the comforter barely covering him as it pools around his lower back with one leg sticking out the side. His face is distorted by his wild and wavy hair, something that Tony has always adored. Loki only allows him see his hair like that, and that just makes him tingle. His trickster is funny like that, completely obsessed with making sure the Avengers don't know his hair isn't perfectly straight all the damn time. Oh but Tony loves him, even these little quirks, and even if he doesn't tell him enough. He should probably do something about that. _No_, he should definitely do something about it.

Out of the corner of his eye, he's distracted from the godly sight that beholds him by several flashes reflecting from the bedside table in the light of the lamp that was left on. He walks over — intrigued — only to find the green waist cincher his mysterious dancer had been wearing. He picks it up with trembling hands; his breathing speeds, wide-eyed and panicked, wondering what sick fuck would play such a dangerous game. Eyes darting around the room, jerking around to look over each shoulder, he checks for intruders or whoever is purposefully screwing with him. As quietly as he can whilst trying not to freak out or more importantly wake Loki, he creeps over to the opposite corner where he eyes something that looks inexplicably like the shoes she wore. Whoever put them there threw them unceremoniously on the floor, one having fallen on its side. On top of the chest of drawers, the rest of the lingerie set is folded neatly with the full $500 he handed her.

Preoccupied with his thoughts, he doesn't hear the rustling of the sheets until it's really too late. A sleep-addled voice filters through the air, barely reaching the corner where the mortal is stood, "Tony?"

Swearing under his breath, _shit_, he throws the cincher on the side and pushes it with the rest of the lingerie down the back into the gap between the wall and the drawers. "Yeah, babe; sorry, did I wake you?"

Loki rolls over to look at Tony, having to push his hair out of his half-lidded eyes and behind his ears to see him properly, "Where have you been?" Despite Loki's drowsiness, it sounds more like a quiet accusation than a question. Not that Tony can blame him. He's as guilty as sin, and he hates himself. There is a pregnant pause, thick with unspoken worry.

"Loki, I—" He begins but stutters, stopping dead in his tracks.

The God sits up in all his glory rubbing his eyes, his naked chest contrasting against the crisp, dark sheets. "Anthony, please… don't lie to me."

"I— I went to a strip club." He hears his own voice wavering, but hearing Loki plead like that tears at his heart; the shame bleeds into him, "And yesterday and the day before. And I wish I could explain what's going on in my fucking head, but I can't, not in a way that will make this better. Just, I know, _fuck_! Just know — please Loki — I love you."

"Anthony," He holds out his hand, beckoning the engineer over to him. Tony walks over, their fingers entwining together, "Darling, that's all I ever needed to hear from you," He pauses, whilst Tony sits on the bed in front of him, "With my own ears, not those of your dancer."

"What?" Everything slots into place, the similar features, her presence, the fact she knew a _man_ was waiting at home for him, "That, _that_ was _you_?!"

He shrugs his shoulders, "Magic."

"But that was you? You were that woman, you were _there_?" Tony jumps up from the bed, starting to pace up and down.

Loki takes a deep breath, psyching, preparing himself, "I was afraid. You would leave once you believed me asleep, and not return till the early hours. I smelt it — those women, that place — on you and your clothes; I thought it was my mind playing tricks on me again," and if that doesn't just kill Tony... he can't begin to imagine how hard this is for Loki to experience and to admit aloud, "but I dismissed it, I didn't want to think ill of you. Then yesterday, the same thing. When you left for the third time tonight, I couldn't sit by and ignore once more. I tracked you to that establishment and when I saw those women, I couldn't stand the idea of you looking at _them._ It was me or no one." Tony watches Loki's fingers curl tightly into the sheet barely covering his lower modesty, he wants to step forward and join him on the bed again, wants to hold his God and wants to show him that his words are true, that he really does love him. But he doesn't, not yet, it doesn't feel right to impose on him. "I do not like to share, Anthony. You needed to be reminded of what you were missing, and I thought introducing you to my female form would be the best course of action."

"Your female form?" His heart skips a beat, "You mean this is like an actual thing, there's a _Lady Loki_?"

"If you wish to put it in that way, I do have shape shifting abilities. But she is most certainly not my preferred form." Loki states gruffly, making that fact undoubtedly clear.

"Good." Loki looks up from his hands to properly see Tony grinning. Tony smiles more at Loki's surprised expression, "I much prefer you this way, my _king_."

"Are you mocking me, Anthony?" He hisses.

"I wouldn't dare!" He groans with an exasperated breath, he's not conveying his feelings like he wants because it's just easier to hide behind his humour. But he sucks it up, has too, his lover deserves better than his current piss poor attempt at reassuring him, "Loki, look, you are _beautiful_, and you don't even know it. _You_ are the centre of my fucked-up little world, hon. Making love to you is like nothing I've ever experienced; I don't want and will never want anyone more than I want you, not even Lady-you." He sighs, "I've hurt you, babe, and I'm sorry. I'm struggling to come to terms with this whole relationship thing in the first place. I don't _do_ relationships, but this, I want it to work. This is the first thing I've ever wanted to work, not for a purpose or a goal, but purely because I love it. I love you. I will do everything in my power to never hurt you again."

"Anthony," Loki's voice low, breath hitching, uncharacteristically shy for the God, "Show me. Show me how much you love me, how special I am?"

The words resonate through him; he told _Loki's fucking female form_ that the God was special to him, and now it's all being brought back up. The fact that she was Loki all along doesn't make Tony feel better, any less dirty. When he left the club, he vowed never to step foot in another ever again. The tears glazing Loki's eyes prove that was the right decision. Should have been his decision all along.

Caught in a curious gravitational pull — he can't stay away any longer — Tony rushes across the room and all but throws himself onto the bed. He pulls Loki hard against him; his head presses into Tony's neck, arms cautiously sliding around his back, grasping onto his jacket to make sure he's really there. Impatient fingers grip and pull, tugging at the jacket, _needing_ it off. Getting the message, Tony shrugs it from his shoulders, loosening his tie and pulling it over his head. Loki's lips find Tony, fast and furious, tongues dancing in the mortal's mouth.

With his fingers winding into the others hair, Loki pushes himself up, out from under the covers and flips them over. He props Tony against the pillows and headboard, settling comfortably, straddling his thighs. Determined and dominating, in control once more like he was as _her_, Loki rips Tony's shirt, the buttons popping off, flying at all angles across the bed and onto the floor, their lips still locked in a tight embrace. Tony drags his fingers down Loki's back, revelling in his naked skin.

"_Tony_," The God whines breathlessly, foreheads and noses pressed together.

"Tell me what you need," Tony nips at Loki's lips, his chin, his neck as he tilts his head back slightly.

"You," he pants, clawing at Tony's belt, his hips stuttering forward desperate for friction, "Worship me."

Tony growls, smothering himself in Loki's neck, using all possible strength to lift the God and lay him back against the bed. He spreads his legs, nails grazing the insides of his thighs, bending in half to kiss along the pale red lines. Loki's back arches sharply, arms flailing to find purchase, fingers fisting in the sheets above his head as Tony continues to shower his flat stomach and strong torso with kisses, licks, and teasing bites. Paying particular attention to his pert nipples draws a deliciously strangled whimper from the trickster's throat. He kisses every inch of Loki's skin, lavishing him with the attention he deserves. His fingertips every so often, ever so teasingly, brush against Loki's straining cock, laying heavy on his stomach.

With Loki a writhing, hot mess, Tony has to resort to the old fashioned, non-magical way of doing things. Peeling himself away from sweat slicked skin, unhooking those divine legs from his waist, he climbs across the bed to the drawer, delving inside and grabbing the first bottle he can lay his greedy hands on. He crawls back awkwardly with one hand, the other unbuckles his belt and flies, shimmying his trousers from his hips, removing his boxers also. Finally away from the confines of his clothes and back between Loki's legs, he leans over him, both sighing into each other's mouths as Tony's cock slides against Loki's desperately leaking one.

Tony pulls a pillow from behind him and lifts Loki's hips to slide it under, giving himself the perfect angle as he pops the cap of the bottle in his hand. For what feels like an eternity, Tony uses the lube to slowly work Loki open. It's been a while since they last did it this way, Loki usually just magics himself ready foregoing this intimacy he forgot he loved so much. Tony spends forever working Loki's hole, one finger at a time until no resistance is left; the God wanton, sobbing as he meets the thrust of those glorious fingers. He's on fire by the time Tony slips inside a fourth finger, erection throbbing, almost painful, but _oh so good._

Babbling incoherently, hair splayed around his head, unsightly and matted, but Loki's has little care for such things when Tony final — _finally _— breaches him with his cock. The burn, the ache, the stretch, slowly breaks him. Reality falls away leaving only the hard and fast thrusting, the stabbing of his prostate, his eyes roll back, seeing white. His limbs are weak, no longer in his control. "Tony," he whispers, throat coarse and abused from screaming unabashedly. He wants to hold him, keep him close. Tony's rhythm stutters briefly, returning to his torturous pace once he's laid over Loki, resting on his forearms by his head. Loki slides his arms around Tony, holding onto him as he gets fucked into oblivion. He can no longer scream or speak, the breath knocked from him. All he can do is sob ungracefully into the shoulder of the man bringing him to the brink of ecstasy.

He doesn't know how, maybe the emotion in the moment has heightened the pleasure, but after one particularly deep thrust into his prostate, Loki comes hard and undignified without a single touch to his cock. His eyes spring wide, gasping, as his body shakes, trembling as Tony continues thrusting, searching frantically for his own release. Tears roll from the sides of his eyes as his orgasm continues to rip through him, his oversensitive hole still fluttering around Tony's cock. The mortal finally reaches his climax, Loki's name tumbling from his lips, his hot seed filling the man below him, painting his insides as Tony collapses.

He pants hard into Loki's shoulder, as the God holds him even tighter than before. He goes to slip free, but Loki stops him, "Let me feel you," he begs.

Tony doesn't refuse, only kisses him. He rolls them onto their sides, to prevent Loki having to take the brunt of his weight. He hooks Loki's leg over his hip, still keeping his cock inside him at his request. They lie together, kissing gently in each other's arms, until Loki drifts from him, his head lulling forward as he slips into a peaceful sleep. Tony would tease him in the morning for his lacking God stamina, but he won't, not this time; the peaceful look on the God's face is a sight perfect to behold.

Untangling their limbs, Tony pulls his cock free from Loki's loose and used hole. He groans quietly as the chill in the air hits him, but groans a little louder when he sees his come seeping down Loki's legs. He ambles into the bathroom and returns with a warm wash cloth and sets about cleaning up his God. When finished, he uses all his might to lift Loki and place his head amongst the pillows. He removes the covers, dirty with sweat and come, and fetches fresh from the walk-in wardrobe. Tony covers Loki and then climbs in beside him, his arms wrapping around him, holding him close with his chin resting on top of his head.

Burying his face in Loki's hair, he breathes him in, "_Fuck_, I love you so much."

"Good. Now go to sleep, you oaf." Loki's voice is tired, muffled from the angle he's lying at, face hidden in Tony's chest. He presses a kiss to the dip of his collarbone, "I love you too."

Both smiling, Loki flicks off the bedside lamp with his magic, throwing the room into darkness despite the rising sun outside. Thankfully Tony installed a glass that can become opaque at a touch of a button or a simple voiced request to Jarvis. Cuddling into each other's hold, they sleep long into the afternoon, one step forward in their relationship, one step further to fully understanding each other. So much closer to making this work, and being happy about it.


End file.
